“I can’t wait. I’m too tired. I’m going, even if Rhiannon doesn’t.”
“I think you’re being mean,” Jeremy announced hotly.
“Maybe. I’m tired.”
“Okay,” Jeremy huffed. “I’ll go look for her.”
“Thank you.” She extended her hand. “I’ll hold the diary.”
“Don’t you dare open it,” Jeremy warned. “Don’t forget what I said about Dara coming back. This is a ghost hangout, you know. She’d be back here lickety-split if you read her diary.”
“All right. I believe you. Now don’t let Rhiannon get away again. I’m not staying out here half the night.”
“You really are crabby tonight,” Jeremy muttered as he tromped off after the cat.
Streak looked at Christine. “There could be things in here that would be excruciatingly embarrassing to Ames, things that can’t hurt Dara because she isn’t here. Ames still is and he’s been through enough.”
“Which doesn’t change the fact that Dara was murdered. Information in this diary could lead to her killer.” Christine felt growing confidence in her belief. “That’s why it has to go to the police.”
“I see your point if there really is something important in here. But the diary might be full of nothing but a teenage girl’s silliness. Not that at nineteen Dara should have been all that silly, but in some ways she seemed much younger than her age.”
“In some ways she seemed like she didn’t have a brain,” Christine couldn’t help snapping. “But in others she was very sophisticated. She wasn’t a bad person, Streak, but she was self-absorbed and she never thought about the consequences of her actions. She was also extremely impulsive.”
“You really did hate her,” Streak said softly.
“I did not!” Christine’s anger rose. “I am so tired of being accused of hating Dara. I tried to be friends with her when we first came here, and she let me know in a hurry she wanted nothing to do with me. And she kept letting me know it. She made fun of me. She shunned me. She rubbed my face in the fact that she was beautiful and popular and had a doting father. She hurt my feelings. She made me jealous. She made me mad. So no, I didn’t like her. But I didn’t hate her.”
Streak held up his hand as if to stem the tirade. “I shouldn’t have said that. I saw her goad you over the years. You had every right to dislike her. But I was out of line to say you hated her. I’m sorry.”
“All right. Apology accepted. But my prejudices against her aside, Streak, you know she got a thrill out of taking risks, and I’d bet my life she was up to some things she shouldn’t have been.”
“Things that could have gotten her killed?”
“Maybe.”
“So you’re planning on running to Sheriff Teague with this diary?”
“Absolutely not. Buck Teague is an idiot. Besides, the diary could be full of things that have absolutely no bearing on Dara’s murder.”
“Then what’s your solution?”
Christine said firmly, “We should read the diary first. We don’t want the whole police department reading about family squabbles that have nothing to do with Dara’s death. If that’s the only kind of thing she wrote about, we don’t need to give this to the police.”
“But if there’s something suspicious—”
“Then we have no choice, even if the family does suffer some embarrassment.”
Streak’s face turned grim. “I don’t like it, Chris. It’s sneaky. It could cause Ames untold humiliation.”
“What does some humiliation matter if it leads to finding who killed Dara, wrapped her in plastic, and threw her in the river?”
The force of Christine’s brutal words seemed to freeze Streak’s objections. Of course Ames loved his daughter and wouldn’t want her reputation besmirched in any way, even by something trivial. But even more than protecting her reputation, he would want her killer found and punished.
Christine could see the conflict going on behind Streak’s hooded eyes. “Streak, I want us to read it first,” she tried again. “I want you to come home with Jeremy and me. You and I will read the diary and then we will decide what to do.”
Christine knew how intrusive Streak must find such a request. After all, he really didn’t know her well. Also, he was comfortable only two places—in his home and on his lonely runs. His visits were limited to his mother’s house and Ames’s, and they were always short.
Streak looked extremely reluctant and Christine almost withdrew the request, then forced herself to take a stand. She needed help with this matter. “Please, Streak. I know you don’t want to do this, but I don’t feel right about deciding all on my own whether to take the diary to the police. You’re more like family to Ames than I am. There’s no one else I’d really trust to help me with this decision.”
Finally, Streak said with a slight smile, “Going to push the responsibility off on me, are you?”
“If it goes to the police and Ames has a fit—”
“He definitely will, Chris.”
“I know. Anyway, in that event, I’ll take full responsibility for the decision. He won’t even know you were involved. I promise.”
“I was teasing, Chris. I don’t like displeasing Ames, but he doesn’t scare me. And I’m more of a man than to push the responsibility off on you. If we decide to give the police the diary, I’ll own up to my part in the decision.”
“Okay. But I have one condition. If it goes to the police, I want to give it to Deputy Winter, not Sheriff Teague.”
“Winter? I thought you didn’t trust him.”
“All I said is that he struck me as being tenacious. But as for trust, after one brief meeting with him I trust him more than I do Teague. Our sheriff has it in for my brother.”
“Yes, he certainly does. All right. If the diary goes, it goes to Winter. But are you sure you want to start reading tonight?”
“I can’t possibly sleep after all this. I also don’t think we should hang on to the diary for long if there’s something in it that could tell us what happened to Dara.”
Streak nodded, then turned. Jeremy was tramping toward them with Rhiannon in his arms, her golden eyes looking huge in the moonlight. “Your sister has asked me to come home with you two. I’ll ride your bike back. You and Rhi go in the car.”
“How come you’re going to our house? You’ve never been there before,” Jeremy asked suspiciously.
“It’s part of our adventure.”
“Oh.” Jeremy’s suspicion faded and he looked pleased. “Maybe you don’t know which house is Christy’s. You can ride in the car with her and I’ll take my bike.”
“I know which house is yours and I really want to ride your bike. It’s a beauty.” Christine knew Streak had no great desire to ride Jeremy’s bicycle. Just an hour earlier Jeremy had been an emotional wreck, and now Streak wanted to make sure he returned home safely. “Riding the bike is part of the adventure for me,” Streak said enthusiastically.
“Oh, sure, I get it,” Jeremy said approvingly. “Do you know how to ride my bike?”
“This ten-speed is a lot fancier than anything I ever had, but I think the old-timer can make it. See you at the house in a few minutes.”
As soon as they left the creek area, the vitality seemed to drain from Jeremy. Christine imagined the adrenaline that had pushed him into overdrive earlier had abruptly dissipated, leaving him exhausted. He was yawning hugely when they got home. He and the cat nearly tumbled from the car, and as soon as they got inside, he said, “I’m sorry to mess up Streak’s adventure, but I’m too sleepy to stay up and visit. Do you think he’d be mad if I just go to bed?”
“Of course he won’t be mad. There’s plenty of time for other adventures.” Christine had expected an argument with him about their reading the diary. With relief, she realized that if Jeremy went to bed, a spat could be avoided. “Make sure the basement doors to the outside are locked,” she called as Jeremy headed downstairs with Rhiannon.
Christine put
on another pot of coffee and waited for Streak. “Thank goodness the rain has stopped,” he said after putting Jeremy’s bike in the garage and sitting down at the kitchen table. “That could have been a nasty ride home.”
“No rain means no more flooding.”
“Not necessarily. The rain has just moved north. The river will still rise. The trouble isn’t over yet.” She set a mug of coffee in front of him and he immediately took a sip. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a flood wall like that town down the river. I think the Army Corps of Engineers will order sandbagging to start tomorrow.”
“And Jeremy will want to be in the midst of the activity.”
“Don’t sound so worried. He’s strong and capable. You can’t hover over him forever, Chris.” Streak grinned. “Even the notorious recluse Streak Archer will turn out to help.”
“That should cause talk.”
“Hopefully enough to drown out talk about the body.”
“I don’t think anything could do that.” Christine sighed as she sat down with her own mug of coffee. “Can you imagine what Ames must be feeling tonight?”
“No, but then, Ames has always been good at closing his eyes to what he doesn’t want to see. He didn’t even cry when his mother died, although I know he adored her.”
“What about when Eve died?”
“Pretty much the same. He said he couldn’t cave in to his grief because he had to be strong for Dara, but I think giving in to emotion to him was the same as admitting Eve was gone. And he couldn’t let go of her, so he turned to her nurse. Patricia was just a link to his first wife.”
“A young and pretty link.”
“Yes. And one that Dara liked until Ames married her.”
“Do you think Patricia loves Ames?”
Streak shook his head. “She came from a dirt-poor background, detested nursing although she was good at it, and saw a comfortable landing place with an older, financially successful man.”
“Not so comfortable a place with Dara around. They rarely got through a day without some kind of blowup. I remember how anxious it made me when Jeremy and I came to live with Ames. I thought Ames might decide Jeremy and I were responsible for all the trouble and get rid of us. Everything had been so peaceful and loving in our home. The Prince house was fairly crackling with tension.”
“Tension Dara probably wrote about in the diary.” Streak picked up the plastic bag and carefully slid out the book. “Think we should get started?” Christine nodded and he pushed the diary toward her as he leaned back in his chair. “You begin. Then I’ll take over.”
Christine opened the cover. The first page was covered with Dara’s familiar large, loopy handwriting done in red ink. Christine read aloud: “ ‘I received this diary on December twenty-fifth, another merry, scary Christmas in the Prince home. Here we are, all acting like we’re a loving family when most of us hate each other. But that’s nothing new. What’s new is how I feel.’ ”
Christine’s gaze darted ahead and then she paled. Streak leaned forward. “What does it say?”
She drew a deep breath and read, “ ‘I feel like someone wants me dead.’ ”
2
Michael Winter lay staring at the ceiling. He’d been going since five in the morning, it was now after midnight, and he still couldn’t sleep. His eyes felt gravelly, his legs ached from all the walking he’d done, and he was more tired than he had been for a year. But his thoughts churned and he couldn’t sleep.
“Well, hell,” he muttered, flinging back his sheet and blanket. He walked barefoot into the kitchen, got a beer out of the refrigerator, popped open the can, and drank deeply. Its cold bite felt remarkably satisfying. Michael rarely drank, but he realized he’d been craving a beer since he came home three hours earlier.
He wandered into the living room, picked up the television remote, and faced the twenty-five-inch screen. Immediately he saw a woman with bared breasts the size and shape of grapefruits wearing a nurse’s cap as she climbed into a delighted elderly patient’s hospital bed. “I can make you feel lots better then those old doctors can,” she cooed.
Michael tapped buttons on the remote. Suddenly a hot police pursuit was in progress, the cop’s car spinning wildly around corners, the cop looking iron-jawed and deadly. On another channel, well-dressed teens screamed their way down an alley, fleeing from some kind of roaring creature with tentacles. “One more try,” Michael muttered. A young woman burst into view, frolicking through a meadow and tossing her long auburn hair. Apparently, her fabric softener had thrown her into a fit of ecstasy. Michael’s mouth opened slightly as she turned, flashed a brilliant smile, and batted her lashes over heart-stopping large green eyes. “Good God, it’s Lisa,” he said as his ex-wife beamed to all the world.
He and Lisa had been divorced for almost two years, yet seeing her smiling at him in the night still shook him, still made him feel empty. She’d written to him about getting the commercial, but he’d forgotten. Or rather, he’d purposely blocked the idea that he might see her on television. She looked so young. Too young to have been the mother of a two-year-old girl who’d drowned. The woman on television looked like she’d never known a moment of unhappiness, much less the shattering trauma that had torn them apart.
The commercial had vanished to be replaced with a doctor yelling to people only inches away, “Three hundred joules! Clear! Clear!” Michael didn’t see him. He still saw Lisa skipping through the meadow and remembered how she’d looked when they met five years ago in Los Angeles. She’d rear-ended him at a stoplight. He’d thrown his car into park and flung out of it, ready to blast the ignorant jackass who shouldn’t even have a license to drive. And there she’d stood with her long hair and big eyes, looking contrite, afraid, and absolutely beautiful. He’d smiled and said, “Looks like we’ve had a little accident,” then thought about how foolish he sounded. But she’d smiled tremulously and his heart had melted. Three months later they were married. A year after that they were parents of a perfect baby girl they’d named Stacy.
The ache of loss washed over Michael as if Stacy had died two days ago instead of two years. Well-meaning people had told him that time heals all wounds. They’d been wrong, he thought as he drained the can of beer and went back to the refrigerator for another.
“Two is the limit, Winter,” he said aloud as he walked back into the living room with his fresh beer. It had been a long, hard day and he had another one starting again in a few hours. He needed to be sharp.
He turned off the television, although Lisa’s image was long gone. He didn’t want to chance seeing the commercial again. He needed to focus on something immediate, not replay that torturous tape of the past. And what was most immediate? The finding of the body in the river.
Michael had seen his share of dead bodies when he was a detective in Los Angeles. He’d gazed at the remains of people who had been shot, strangled, and stabbed. He’d looked with cool professionalism at the dreadful wounds one human being had inflicted on another. He’d sat in on autopsies where pathologists had plunged hands into corpses to withdraw organs, each measured and weighed. But nothing had ever sickened him as much as the putrid atrocity he’d seen lying in a shroud of filthy plastic this afternoon. Of course, it shouldn’t have been unwrapped, but eager volunteers did not know police procedures and had loosened the smothering cover only to jump back in horror and revulsion. By the time Michael got there only minutes later, two of the men had already thrown up and a third barely stood—shaking, sweating, and white-faced.
Now came the job of finding out who had sent this hideous offering into the Ohio River.
In spite of the gorge that had risen in his throat when he first saw the body, part of Michael had been able to stand off and observe. That part had judged the body to measure between sixty and sixty-five inches long. The tangled mess at one end was the remains of longish black hair. As he’d watched, flesh had begun falling away from the bones. One of the men who still hung near the site had said hoarsely,
“I’ll bet that’s Ames Prince’s girl, sure as I’m living. I knew she hadn’t never run away.”
Before he left police headquarters that day, Michael had retrieved the file of Dara Prince. He now picked it up from an end table, took another sip of beer, then sat down in a chair and opened the file.
The first thing he saw was her picture. Her head was slightly tilted, her lips shiny with gloss, her incredible violet eyes seeming to gaze challengingly into his. She looked insouciant, defiant, and just a bit vulnerable around the mouth. She had been a sophomore at Winston University, where she made average to low grades. According to her father, life at the Prince home was one of sweetness and harmony with Dara enjoying a lovely relationship with all members of the family. The comments of outsiders gave a different picture. People said Dara hated her stepmother, Patricia, and resented Christine and Jeremy Ireland, her father’s wards. Dara had few girlfriends and was, according to some, “a shameless flirt.” Michael smiled faintly. That prissy assessment certainly hadn’t come from anyone under sixty.
Dara had dated jewelry designer and employee of Prince Jewelry Reynaldo Cimino for a year. According to several sources, although Cimino was clearly serious about her, she didn’t seem quite so devoted to him. Most people couldn’t point to one particular man, though, who’d captured her attention, with the exception of Sloane Caldwell, who was engaged to Christine Ireland. Michael took another sip of beer. Now that was an interesting, although scanty, piece of information. Exactly what kind of attention had Dara given the man?
Michael read on. Dara had been nineteen years old when she disappeared on a stormy March night. Her father and stepmother had gone to a movie. Jeremy Ireland was next door with the neighbors. Christine Ireland had been in the university library.
In the early hours of the morning, Ames Prince had reported his daughter missing. A search of her bedroom revealed missing clothing, a missing suitcase, missing cosmetics. There had also been a brief farewell note. Her stepmother said Dara often talked of leaving Winston. However, Christine Ireland, twenty-one years old at the time, insisted things remained in the bedroom and bathroom that Dara would have taken with her if she’d run away.
If She Should Die Page 8